


Obscurity

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [5]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: College Life, F/M, canon/original character relationship, growing relationship, playful banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4487487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is an intricate web of contradictions, of irony, of mystery and intrigue.  He thinks, sometimes, he'll spend the rest of his natural-born life trying to unravel her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obscurity

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing much to say about this one...basically, just an excuse to write some banter. Please enjoy! :)

Victor doesn’t make a point of breaking in to her dormitory. Iris prefers her privacy and he’s content to respect that, especially when she never refuses him entry. But, when he’s bored, and she’s not answering his knock at the door, there are certain exceptions to the rule.

It’s a rather pleasant day, as autumn goes, and he has some free time from work with Don Falcone away on business. Normally, idle hands—especially his—are indeed the devil’s workshop, but not today. 

He picks the lock, quietly and without any fuss, and slips inside before any of her dorm-mates think to peek outside and investigate the noise. He closes the door just as quietly, casts a look around the room and checks the bathroom to confirm his suspicions. Iris isn’t home.

For as often as he visits her, he actually doesn’t come in her room very often. The last time he’s been in here, it was dark and he wasn’t exactly focused on her décor. Not much has changed, really, not since the day she moved in; the desk is still overly organized and her bed is still neatly made, and her wardrobe still hosts a wide assortment of uniquely-crafted clothing. Granted, in comparison to her fellow females, it’s still of rather modest design and in contradiction to the weather forecast. He’s seen her sport bare arms in winter and long-sleeves in summer, and there’s almost never more than two inches of midriff showing at any time. Maybe three, if she’s pinching a penny and still wearing something that probably should have been traded out a few years back.

The walls, however, have changed. The formerly bare brick is now covered with artwork. Not hers; this is classic Renaissance art, the kind one would find in art museums and galleries. He recognizes most of it from his younger days: paintings that depict _Echo and Narcissus_ , the _Birth of Venus_ , and—most intriguingly—multiple images of _Pygmalion and Galatea_. Most intriguing indeed.

When he’s done tossing a few glances around the room, his gaze drops to her desk. There’s a stack of four or five notebooks, placed closest to the left side, with a pen nearby. The top one looks a little off-kilter, like she replaced it hastily before rushing off to class.

Curiosity and boredom conspire, and he perches lightly on the desk edge while collecting the notebook and flipping it open. On the lined pages is her thin, spidery writing, filling each and every line with handwriting so small and so tightly scripted it’s barely legible. Barely, except that he’s been reading her handwriting for years and knows it almost as well as his own.

An intended bout of skimming quickly delves into an in-depth, highly-concentrated reading. From the first notebook to the second, then to the third, and he’s halfway through the fourth when the door is unlocked and Iris steps in. She doesn’t notice him until she’s closed the door, slipped out of her shoes, and is three feet inside; when she does, he hears her footsteps abruptly halt. “Victor?”

He ignores her, but shifts a little, eyes tracing over the words with a furrowed brow, and slowly reads aloud, “ _While capable of making intellectual connections, with those equally receptive and possessing compatible levels of intelligence, Subject is not capable of a genuine emotional attachment. The gathered and presented research indicates Subject may be suffering from a type of Reactive Attachment Disorder, one which has carried over from childhood into the late adolescent years; however, Subject does not meet all the criteria for R.A.D. and additional research will be needed, throughout Subject’s young adult years, to determine what other disorders should be included in this assessment_.”

He closes the notebook with one hand, sets it aside, and returns his gaze to Iris, who is standing in place, holding his gaze with barely a blink or hint of embarrassment. “You’ve been studying yourself.”

She blinks, once, twice, then exhales slowly and hangs her bag and coat on the small rack near her door. “I wanted to make my thesis more interesting.” She says quietly, turning back to look at him once she’s put things away in their proper placement. “More personal.”

“So you thought conducting a psychological analysis on yourself was the way to go.”

His unimpressed tone clearly makes a point, because she steps a little closer to him, arms folding across her chest, eyebrow cocked and jaw set. “It is not only me.” She returns briskly. “My study also includes Marcus and Maria. It is impossible to examine the offspring without examining the parenting specimens.”

“Why?” he asks, even though there is a little bit of satisfaction at the way she refers to her parents. “What did you hope to gain by this?”

Silence falls again; she stands in place, shifting from side to side with casual grace, and then sighs heavily, runs both hands through her hair, and takes slow steps forward. “I made the decision to pursue this degree,” Iris says, even softer than before, “to take classes in which I can study and examine and explore the human mind, flaws and strengths and everything in between…so I could understand myself. So I could understand what is wrong with me.”

“Which you’re going to put on display in front of all of them.” He gestures loosely towards the window in some obscure demonstration. Most people, he knows, would spout off saccharine reassurances about how _there’s nothing wrong with you_ and _never be ashamed of who you are_ and so on. He won’t, because for one, she’ll call him out on it in half a second, and more importantly, they both know there are several things wrong with her. Quite a few, in fact. “The people who already call you _creepy_ and _weird_ on a regular basis. You want to give them fuel for the fire?”

Her eyebrows lift, then furrow, and she steps even closer. “This is not for them.” She retorts, eyes flashing slightly. “This is for me. I do not need nor do I desire their approval or admiration. This is _my_ work, Victor. _They_ did not help me with it. _They_ did not encourage me in it. _They_ do not matter. They have already formed their opinions about who and what I am, and if this is concrete evidence for them, so be it. I do not care.” 

In a rather intriguing move, she leans forward and braces her hands against the desk, trapping him between both arms, and limits the distance to maybe four inches. “And you know this.” She continues. “If you are going to bait me, at least do it with some subtlety.”

He smirks, leaning forward just a bit to match her. “I do so like it when you get feisty.” He murmurs. “It’s quite…inspiring.”

Iris rolls her eyes and pushes herself off the desk, creating distance once more, but before she can step away, his hands find hers and pull her back, until his knees rest against her upper thighs. She blinks, looking a little surprised, but not alarmed, and lets him keep her hands captive in his own.

“Why do you look at me this way, Victor?” she asks softly, after a pause, and her fingers idly stroke his.

He doesn’t answer, not for a few minutes; instead, he runs a thoughtful gaze down her figure, from face to neck and all the way down to her bare feet, then backtracks to meet her eyes again. “You’re becoming quite a young woman.” He remarks quietly.

“It has been five years.” Her eyebrows lift delicately, amusement hinting her features. “Did you really expect me to remain a child?”

“Hardly.” No, she is no longer a child; the hands in his are longer, slender and graceful, finally grown into themselves, and she is much taller and everything that was disproportionate before is filled out and smoothed and refined. She is, truly, beautiful. The perfect image of virgin grace. It would almost be a sacrilege to leave a mark on her, in the final moment of life. Perhaps poison instead. No traces, no blemishes, and she’d leave a flawless corpse behind.

“Then why the surprise in your voice, my tiger?” she steps forward, even closer; he catches the scent of her shampoo and her skin, woven together in one delicious aroma. It’s almost enough to make his mouth water.

“Not surprise.” He corrects her, one hand daring a path up her arm to shoulder; she doesn’t stop him, and he takes that as permission to slip that hand around her neck and comb fingers loosely through her hair. “Just impressed. Given where you came from…you could have turned out so much worse.”

Iris smirks, and, to his legitimate surprise, steps even closer and ropes her arms lightly around his neck. Her eyebrow lifts, and that combines with her smirk and the gleam in her eyes to create a very attractive image. _Too attractive._ It should be illegal for her look like that.

“So glad to hear this.” She croons, “At least now you will sleep better.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, just a little, and he brushes a brief kiss along her forehead. “Your concern is touching, my dear one.” He murmurs, kissing again as an afterthought, then resting his mouth lightly against her skin with a quiet sigh. “But I don’t sleep much.”

“That is unhealthy. Your body needs proper rest.”

“Hmm.”

She tilts her head back so he can see the arched brow and hint of exasperation across her face. “You do not let me get away with making a friend of insomnia, Victor.” She reminds him, pointedly, “But you think I will allow you the same?”

“I’m older than you. I’ve had more time to adapt and make it a long-standing relationship.”

“Yes, indeed. Clearly, an old man.” She shakes her head. “A ridiculous, overly-stubborn, arrogant and proud, morally inept old man.”

“There’s no need to be insulting, Iris.” He lifts his eyebrows a bit. “I am _not_ ridiculous.”

***

She presents her thesis on a cool autumn afternoon, in a large auditorium in front of her classmates, five members of the Psychology department, and her professor. She makes a point to not look at any of them throughout the allotted hour for her presentation, but instead keeps her eyes trained solely on the figure in black seated at the very back, so far that she almost can’t see him, but his blue eyes are not ones to be missed, no matter how dense the crowd or how great the distance between them.

It’s a little odd, seeing him among the masses when she’s more used to seeing him appear from shadows, and disappearing just as quickly. To observe him in a classroom, almost as though he belongs among the students, except that he’s far better dressed than any of them, is intriguing, and teases the corners of her lips up, just a little bit, but not enough to make people question why she would be smiling during a presentation such as hers. Considering the subject material, it would not be appropriate.

There are times, as she discusses all findings and conclusions, that she does wonder if, perhaps, she was mistaken on some counts. Is it a gross overestimation to say she—as the Subject—feels nothing? Certainly, the majority of her interactions with other people are rehearsed and practiced, as she has been taught, because she simply can’t find it within herself to connect with them. She gives false smiles and nods at something they say that is meant to be witty, but there are at least three inaccuracies that she longs to address but doesn’t because it would be socially impolite. She finds it incredibly difficult to empathize when someone grieves a poor grade or loss of an intimate relationship, because there are so many other things they could have lost which would be far more detrimental and devastating, but she’s been called insensitive enough times in her life that it’s easier to remain silent and, in most cases, walk away.

But she doesn’t always feel rehearsed and automated in all interactions. She takes genuine and considerable delight in Victor’s company, because even with all his questionable quirks and morally unethical personality traits, he is the best company she’s ever had. They’ve spent many days these past years discussing art and poetry, literature and music, and so many other things she is otherwise unable to discuss with others. He shares her educated upbringing; they were both cultured in language and speak at least four other dialects fluently—she’s helped him polish up the Russian, and he’s assisted her in refining the French. She can share with him her love of Beethoven and how she taught herself to play _Moonlight Sonata_ at the age of three. He’s told her of the library his parents owned and how he’s read Voltaire in French, five times, starting at age ten.

He is, essentially, the closest thing she’s ever had to a friend. Which, of course, is rather pathetic. But it is what it is.

When she finishes, there is fifteen minutes worth of questions, mostly from her professor and the department members. A couple of her female classmates make a rather crude point of asking where she got her inspiration for the thesis, in such a way that their implications are not missed, and a short glance at Victor’s face tells her he not only heard the questions but is also silently considering where he might hang these young ladies’ very photogenic heads.

When everyone files out, she’s left alone to gather up her notes and tuck everything away in neat order. After a short moment, she hears his footsteps descending the stairs, and quickly thereafter he’s propped himself up against the podium with a look she knows only too well.

“No, Victor.”

“Just five minutes, Iris.” He counters. “A quick little chat, and they can go about their merry way.”

“A five minute chat with you sends people into a psychotic break.” She answers, snapping her bag closed and hoisting it over her shoulder. “The answer is no.”

He huffs, following her as she exits through a side door and reemerges into the pale daylight. “You take the fun out of everything.”

“Yes, I know.” she sighs, shaking her head as though deeply ashamed and remorseful. “I abuse you so, poor thing. It is a wonder you put up with me, with all the cruel and heartless neglect. You should find another girl. Someone better than me.” 

She adjusts the strap of her bag, a thin smirk curling her mouth. “Someone kind and gentle, with only tender touches and a heart so full of compassion and love and adoration. Someone who will call you her precious darling and welcome you into her arms after a long day’s work and stroke your head and—”

His hand abruptly clamps down over her mouth, and when she casts a sideways look at him, he looks ill and halfway contemplating the quickest and easiest way to commit suicide. “Point made.” He says, in the long-suffering tone of one who is almost incapable of coherent speech, for all the injury they have just endured.

“Good.” She nods, as her hand removes his and frees her lips to speak once again. “No more complaining from you, and I promise no more such talk from me.”

He agrees, quickly and eagerly, and the conversation turns to different topics as they make their way back to the secluded little island, on the other side of campus, take up a spot beneath the trees, and delve into an impassioned debate over the accuracy of her diagnoses for Maria. Her professor’s notes state she is being _overly dramatic_ and _micro-analyzing for both symptoms and diagnosis_. Victor says she left a few out, and names the ones he would have added. She rolls her eyes and reminds him that none of those are considered real disorders by the American Psychological Association. He argues they should be, which leads into another debate about what is and is not actually included in the Diagnostic Manual.

By the time he returns her to the dormitory, they reach an agreement that she should be left to the task of _diagnosing_ psychological disorders, and he should be left to the task of _causing_ psychological disorders. It is, all things considered, a mutually beneficial arrangement.


End file.
